


Match

by allollipoppins



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Christmas Vacation, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, M/M, YOI Secret Santa 2018, because I am a horrible person I'm so sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/pseuds/allollipoppins
Summary: He tilts his head back, blinks away the heaviness that had settled over his eyes in his slumber, and finds himself staring up at the ceiling. And opens his eyes wide.This is not their apartment.Musings on a winter night in Dartmouth.





	Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fromstarlighttodust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromstarlighttodust/gifts).



> I will confess here and now that this fic has the strangest origin out of everything I have ever written. After much deliberation, I gave myself the challenge to find anagrams out of fromstarlighttodust's pseud, and to create a story using as many of them as possible.
> 
> To Starlight: First of all, I am so very sorry it took me so long to reach out to you! Big fan of your work and of your tumblr here, so I was a bit intimidated but very excited to write for you! I hope that you will like this story and that you're having a great holiday :)
> 
> On a side note: this story is set in Dartmouth for plot purposes but I know next to nothing about the place. I've only been to England once and that was back in 2012 so I'm terribly sorry in advances for the inaccuracies ^^'
> 
> The title was taken from the song "Match" by Of Verona. This work was unbeta'ed and written by a non-native English speaker, so all mistakes are mine. Please feel free to correct me on them ^^

Victor comes back to his senses with a groan. He chases away the single treacherous ray of light that momentarily blinds him, though it is to no avail. The clear white beam still pushes insistently between his fingers.

He tilts his head back, blinks away the heaviness that had settled over his eyes in his slumber, and finds himself staring up at the ceiling. And opens his eyes wide.

This is not their apartment. Their apartment is painted in light colours, almost always bathed in sunlight and smelling of pine and eucalyptus, and the ceiling is made of concrete. The rook over his head, as well as its surroundings, is entirely made of a dark wood that carries a soft scent of wax and dew, without a single hint of cement in sight.

Victor allows himself a few breaths, lying still on the comfortable, yet unfamiliar cushions underneath his back before he sighs heavily, shaking his head at how silly he is being. Of course this is not his and Yuuri’s apartment. To forget that they are actually on vacation… he truly must have been too tired.

Their last competition had taken them to England, and as the event itself had coincided with winter break – and the skating season coming to a close –, both he and Yuuri had decided to kill two birds with one stone and spend their anniversary in the country.

To spend it in Dartmouth, of all places, had come rather on a whim, as it happened to be one of the destinations on their tour of England. Victor can’t quite find it in him to show great interest in Dartmouth, though from what he had glimpsed in pictures and on the way here, it was quite picturesque. An extended, almost endless band of castles and sea they had crossed by train, their compartment shaking over the old rails leading them to stations with unpronounceable names.

It’s a brief getaway from their competition, only a weekend out in the countryside, exploring foreign territory. The city would have been a far more logical choice, Victor thinks for the umpteenth time, but less than ideal. London at this time of the year was buzzing with people, and while the capital looks lovely in winter, it’s quite inconvenient for dates. The crowd that had greeted them outside of Heathrow alone had threatened to swallow them whole, and the one that had constantly awaited outside of their hotel room was no better. And yet for a location that attracts a lot of tourists all year round, Dartmouth is surprisingly emptier than they both expected. Even the streets aren’t overly busy, which facilitates travelling and keeps them from being too easily spotted.

Yuuri had been the one who was most adamant about visiting though, and had been wholeheartedly thrilled since the beginning of this trip. That alone had been enough to guilt Victor – Yuuri’s words, because there was nothing Victor wouldn’t have done for him – into buying last-minute tickets on the first morning train leaving Saint Pancras. Overall, it feels like a second-hand experience, as if he were visiting, seeing everything through Yuuri’s eyes. Yuuri’s enthusiasm, something which Victor hadn’t expected at all, is quick to contaminate him, and soon he find that Dartmouth is nowhere nearly as bad as what he had expected either. The air surrounding them is far purer than in any other place he had visited, Saint Petersburg included. It carries a certain saltiness that floats from the nearby sea and above the merchant port.

Still, it is only once there that Victor truly starts to see the appeal of the place that will hosting them for a couple of nights. Although if he were really honest with himself, he doesn’t spend as much time contemplating it as he does looking at Yuuri instead. That alone, watching Yuuri navigate them through the streets of Dartmouth, having him by his side makes him feel like the king of the world.

 

* * *

 

In retrospective, it’s rather silly of Yuuri to think that any of them would go unnoticed in a place like this, in any place at all. Victor knew better than anyone else that missing Yuuri, even in the middle of a crowd, was next to impossible. Wherever they go, his Yuuri always entrances the people close to them, as if he were weaving an invisible thread around that naturally attracted other beings to him. He makes his way through the small crows seamlessly, slipping through it with a dancer’s grace that almost brought Victor’s pacing to shame. Yuuri had this unique way of walking so silently, as if he floated instead of treading on ground. And somehow, he never went unnoticed, bright as he was.

Yuuri’s coat bellowed in the wind when he tugged him by the hand, the fabric wrapping itself around his legs and floating like a cape. The cut of it wasn’t quite right, and the only reason why Victor hadn’t called him out on it was because of how much it befitted him. It fell and engulfed him, too big for his slender shoulders and the sleeves long enough to swallow his hands and wrists, cloaking them in black. His hair was a disorderly mane, a nest of strands curling at the end that made him itch to run his fingers through them, comb them back and press kisses to the crown of Yuuri’s head.

And yet Victor often remained behind, trailing after him and letting Yuuri tug him by the edge of his sleeve, left to grasp at thin air and clinging onto the impression that this was a but a dream. As if Yuuri were nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

It wasn’t hard not to imagine. It wasn’t unheard of. Countless stories had been told, about people who would wake up in hospitals after weeks, months, sometimes entire years spent in a coma, or people who had simply collapsed and believed it to be merely the result of a bad fall or a wrong step, only to be told by doctors that all this time they had a tumour that made them hallucinate. Some days, Victor was scared to fall asleep or even to get up, in fear that in the morning, he would wake up and realize that Yuuri was gone. In fear that after all this time he had never existed.

Already Yuuri seemed to glow in a different light. Victor put it all on how clear Yuuri’s skin was. He had always had a fairly pale complexion, his skin marble-like and flawless, and in winter the tan that had marred his body almost faded away. Sometimes, when Victor brushed his fingers with Yuuri’s own, they were cold to the touch, even on the rare occasion in summer. Still, his limbs moved in accord with his own, unlike a statue’s. Looking at him, Victor always felt as if there were the ghost of a halo surrounding him, something that didn’t sit quite right with the air but otherwise didn’t disturb the atmosphere. As if it carried statics that thrummed all around him, like white noise.

In his deepest fantasies, Yuuri didn’t just look like an angel; he _was_ one, a work of art that couldn’t be imprisoned between glass walls or wooden frames. In spite of the months, the years now that they had spent together, growing together, he still exhibited a certain innocence that Victor hoped would never fade away.

There is proof to the contrary, of course. It hits him sometimes that there is more, so much more to his fiancé that he initially thought. Not that Victor would find it surprising in the slightest. Even after all this time, Yuuri still found innumerable ways to surprise him. It amazes him that he can still flirt so shamelessly with his husband and elicit a reaction from him, without sounding terribly lame.

“Have you put a spell on me?” he had once blurted out in the middle of their kitchen back in Russia before he could stop himself from speaking.

For a moment Victor had expected him to laugh in his face from how ridiculous his question was, or even blush. Yuuri had paused, as if he were truly considering the question. Then the corners of his mouth had turned up in that teasing way that made Victor’s knees weak every single time, and filled him with an urge to kiss him senseless. After a moment of consideration, Yuuri had winked at him.

“I should be asking you that,” he had whispered, passing him by and murmuring in his ear in such a tempting way. “But perhaps I have,” he had finally conceded, before pulling back with a smirk. “And what will you do about that?”

 

* * *

 

The city and the rest of the world are far, far away from there and then. He nudges at the bright red slippers next to the couch, nimbly toes them in and rises from his seating position. Victor moans at the feeling of his back and joints stretching, relieved from all tension.

There’s a storm brewing outside. The windows are pelted with a regular drizzle of water, the rain rat-tatting on the roof and drumming at a steady pace that almost makes the room shake in the silence. Victor can feel the old ache in his knees acting up when it’s raining. Something which, overall, sounds fairly ridiculous coming from a man who has spent the better part of his life in a country where cold weather was a given. The well-oiled mechanic of his body isn’t what it used to be; his bones aren’t as rusty as he would have others think, nor is it so much the result of lack of use or, on the contrary, overexertion. Perhaps it is simply his body telling him that it - -that they – have had enough. Enough of pushing themselves to a limit that he had once thought non-existent, when the reality was that he had yet to reach fora fantasy.

He remembers very little from the car drive from the train station. After getting their vehicle in rental, Yuuri had taken over the driving. Victor may have also had the permit, he had never found the time to use it, regardless of the flamboyant pink Cadillac parked somewhere in Saint Petersburg that begged to differ.

Victor could barely even remember stumbling out of the car and into the living room, which was quite a shame given how lovely the house Yuuri found on Airbnb is, amid the English countryside. What little memories he had are fragmented, blurry from sleeping on the way to the cottage. It had been quiet for the most part inside, save for the beeping of their GPS. They had crossed the occasional motorists and on one memorable instance, a Christmas marching band. The low thrum in his ears as Yuuri hums under his breath, the slush of water off to the river bank and the ocean, and the ghost of a drumming song and a flautist's melody had lulled him in and out of sleep throughout the entire trip.

It is the former that resounds the most with him, perhaps because Victor could remember last hearing Yuuri’s voice before falling asleep. It is also perhaps because he can hear it now. No matter how low Yuuri’s voice is, it echoes loud and clear in the empty room.

It’s already dark outside, probably well past six though it is hard to tell in that weather. Old rags had been slipped under the double doors to keep the water from coming inside. The porch was alight, the stone pavements lit by decorative lanterns and glistening with rainwater.

That is when Victor sees him through the glass pane, on the other side of the porch. The kitchen, he remembers from the description that had been provided of the cottage, also gives on the porch through another double door. Yuuri is at the window, though he doesn’t notice Victor gazing at him from the opposite side of the house. From this angle Victor can see that his head is bowed over the counter, seemingly busy with something that requires all of his attention. His cheeks and nose are lightly dusted in flour, the traces only deepening when Yuuri brushes the back of his hand against his forehead. Victor finds himself chuckling at that adorable display.

It doesn’t take him long to find the hall that leads to the back of the kitchen. Before he knows it, he is standing in the doorway, right behind Yuuri, who still hasn’t noticed him creeping inside the room. The pitch of his hum doesn’t once waver, and his hands remain focused on his work. From the smell and looks of it, it seems as if they will have chocolate cake for dessert. Victor’s mouth waters at that thought alone, if not because of the man before him. Yuuri was here. Yuuri was here with him, within reach, only a few feet away at a distance that could easily be breached with only a few footsteps, or simply by reaching out with his hands.

It’s something that he has yet to capture in any photograph. Even Phichit would never have been able to grasp the essence of him. Perhaps it was part of the reason why Victor had never been terribly attached to memorabilia. He kept his fans’ gifts, the letters, scrolled through the occasional picture he had been tagged in and liked or added it to his favourites, but most of it was meaningless. A mechanical result of years spend pleasing a crowd. It didn’t mean that he loved his fans any less, on the contrary. But often it felt as if far outweighted everything that he had of Yuuri. The Yuuri he had seen on the childhood pictures Hiroko had happily provided him with were never clear enough. Yuuri always seemed to fade into a shadow on family pictures, as if he wanted to become invisible, pass for a blur.

It didn’t compare to having the real thing in front of him. It simply gave him the right to be a little more selfish for once.

It doesn’t take Victor long before he closes in, breaching the distance separating them until his chest presses against Yuuri’s back. Yuuri stills momentarily at the touch, then leans back, the tension in his shoulders visibly lessening.

“Your hands are cold”, he whispers low enough for him to almost miss it, and brings his hands closer to his mouth. Yuuri’s warm breath ghosts over his knuckles before his lips brush his skin. Victor pays no mind to the flour that dusts his fingers, his knuckles only tightening around Yuuri’s own hands. It’s a strange, different kind of lust, different from anything he had ever experienced before, and Yuuri indulges him wordlessly. Lets him card hungry fingers through his hair, close to tearing away his clothes, tugging and pressing. He sighs and tilts his head back when Victor mouths the pulse point at his neck. He tastes salt on his skin, with hints of rainwater and cocoa, that do little to quench the thirst building within his throat. But for now it was good.

Their cake would just have to wait a little bit more.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, tomatoes and bookmarks are always appreciated :)  
> I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr an pillowfort (still very much alive!) and @AriL10N355 on twitter, hmu!


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